


I can't get that Doors song out of my head

by recurringdreams



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Chivalry, Dancing, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fisticuffs, drunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recurringdreams/pseuds/recurringdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a night out in a club. Although when you mix whiskey and women, these boys don't quite know when to stop. </p><p>"Look. Whoever throws the last punch wins, okay?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can't get that Doors song out of my head

**Author's Note:**

> For this and the rest of the fic, as I usually say, none of them are mine, I just like getting them drunk and making them dance.

“And it’ll be whiskey, and a whiskey chaser, and maybe even a whiskey on the side,” he chuckled, his eyes already slack and _more, more, more-ing_ at the bartender as he slung his arm around her, watching him pour the whiskey shots into the lined up glasses. “Did I mention the whiskey chaser, O’Connell?” He looked at Kirsty with a toothy smile and she laughed, ducking out of his half-embrace with the tray of whiskey, whiskey, _whiskey_.

“The line has bourbon in, I’m pretty sure. Thanks for the round though!” She laughed, skittering away to the half-full booth and slipping in beside Liz, trying to share out the shots equally. Fairly. Sort of. In the end the table had more than a shot covering it, and Lizzie had to put a stop to her.

“You know you have a tremor when you’re off your face?”

“Obviously.” She held out her hand. “Steady as a fucking ship in a storm.”

“Does she always talk in mixed metaphors?” The words were half-whispered, half lisped as Benedict took a moment away from dabbing the booze from his thighs, “Or is that just while she’s wasted as well?” Lizzie snorted as Ben took to watching Kirsty study her own hand.

“I’m sure you could shut her mouth with something else if you really wanted.”

“She m-means, means your cock.” Kirsty stumbled the words around her reverie, not even breaking the stare she held with her hand, “Am I really really that shakey?”

“Yes, darling.” Smoothly, Benedict slipped his hand over hers across the table. “But let’s not think about that now. How about we finish what’s left of these,” _all over the table, all over my jeans,_ Lizzie mused as she watched him smooth talk her, “and I steady your hand on the dance floor.”

If they had been sober, all of them, the six of them ( _Tom and Heather, curled in the corner, half on each other’s’ laps were there too, muted, snogging, licking)_ , piled into a shabby booth in a London bar, half eaten starters abandoned to _let’s get out of here, it’s happy hour_ and _whiskey, whiskey, whiskey please,_ then absolutely none of that line would have worked. As it was, the slightly sweaty warmth of a hand wrapping around hers, coupled with the heavy warmth of whiskey in her stomach led Kirsty to her feet and stumbling out of the booth with wide eyes and a grin.

“How on earth did that even work!?” Lizzie glared at Michael as he prowled around the edge of the dancefloor and back to the table. “And more importantly, why aren’t you asking me to dance?”

“Do you dance?” He asked as he slid into the soft cushion beside her, watching as Benedict slipped an arm around Kirsty’s waist and held her against him, hips swaying together to the beat of the music as his chin rested gently against her collarbone, “Do you dance like that?”

“I can do. You might have a bit of a problem getting your hand up my top like that, but if you wanna try, you’re welcome to.”

At her words, Michael’s eyes trailed down from the blissful smiles on his friends’ faces to the absolute mauling that was going on about six inches down. His pleasant buzz faded as he watched Benedict toying with her body, obviously palming and gently teasing at her breasts, perfectly fine in the confines of the booth ( _See Tom and H, still unsurfaced, kissing with hands and lips and skin without a word being exchanged_ ) but out on the floor? Where hundreds of people could see? No, Benedict, have some decency. Come on.

“We’re dancing. Come on.” He tugged at Lizzie’s arm, leaving Tom and the blonde to hold down the fort. Fleetingly he wondered whether the ceiling could fall in and they’d notice. Half of him hoped it would happen. The rest of him was rather enjoying the girl on his arm, and readying himself to show Benedict exactly how courtship should be done.


End file.
